


Gymnopédie No.1

by gummycola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 314 words (hey that's pi), Brotherly Love, Gen, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummycola/pseuds/gummycola
Summary: Each day is the same, the tick of the clock. But this one's been worse somehow. You say so over dinner. He says he's sorry. You know it's true. You wish he weren't sorry for anything.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia)
Kudos: 14





	Gymnopédie No.1

Your fingers are stubby, too uniform in size, stuck too deep into your palms. Suited for holding nails steady and turning wrenches.  
  
His are long and thin, but strong and steady still, extending forward and out to do exactly what he tells them. He tells them to take the sounds from his mind to the keys, to the air, to the minds of others.  
  
You can barely hum, are a permanent disappointment to any girl fool enough to invite you to dance. Your rhythm is the purr of engines. Your beat is the tick of the clock, counting the hours.  
  
He leaves the heat too low during the day for your liking, compensating with sweaters and fingerless gloves. Leaning sideways on the bench in flannel pants and slippers he looks every bit the starving artist you won't allow him to be.

  
But his face (rounder, prettier) lights up when he hears you. He slips from the bench to greet you. He tells you what he did today. He wants to know what you did today.  
  
There's no daylight by the hour you get home this time of year. You want to watch him play in white morning light, a suit, and you'll be Yoko letting the air in. The light's no consequence to him. But he could feel the breeze on the back of his knuckles.  
  
Each day is the same, the tick of the clock. But this one's been worse somehow. You say so over dinner. He says he's sorry. You know it's true. You wish he weren't sorry for anything.  
  
You mute the TV after your shows and he plays your skull like ivory, reads the braille of your scalp as the fingers that know Mozart and Beethoven and Chopin card through your greasy hair.  
  
He plays Satie before bed. He can't see you cry but you know he knows you are. 


End file.
